Life On The Third Coast

In the Summers we are Greek,
always tan bodied and often shirts left
We forget where now

And it's swimming and drinking

Of wine and sitting by a fire

On the beach.

And in the Winters we are Norse, 

wrapped in woolen everything

And eating cream sauce and pickled

Things and drinking warm meads

And we curl up by

The fires in our hearth. 

In between--

The heart clicks its heels and

Says good night before twelve,

Beating the groundhog

And the maple leaves to bed.